


Abandon

by RedSummerRose



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSummerRose/pseuds/RedSummerRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An injury to their leader turns the Inquisition upside down. The inner circle worries, and the Inquisitor faces a past mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Features my mage!Inquisitor, Alcine Trevelyan.

It was in Emprise Du Lion, in the midst of a scuffle with the Venatori. A knife wound, the simplest of gashes slicing into her midsection, a flash of red light caught by the sun.  
  
Alcine barely felt the injury in the initial moments,  the would be assassin eliminated by the sweep of her magical blade. As the last attacker crumpled, dead, the mage replaced her staff, the rush of battle and power fading from her pulse, breath slowing to a more normal pace. She smothered the twinge of discomfort with a healing potion, depositing the empty bottle into one of the pouches at her hip.  
  
“You’re becoming quite adept in your new abilities, darling. I’m rather impressed.” The First Enchanter remarked, arching an well shaped eyebrow.  
  
“That’s high praise indeed, Vivienne. Thank you.” Alcine replied, letting the curtain of blonde hair hide her flushed cheeks.  
  
“If you insist on entering the front lines, we will have to look into finding you better armor.” Cassandra put in dryly, dusting snow from her gloves before sheathing her sword.  
  
The Inquisitor frowned at the warrior, almost a pout. “I have barriers for that. Besides, I doubt I’d be able to walk in heavier armor, let alone cast a spell. Lightning and metal don’t necessarily mix.”  
  
“It’d make watching you scale a tree a lot more entertaining, Ivy,” Varric said, a amused look in his eyes.  
  
Alcine grinned easily, mischief twinkling in pale eyes. “I could still do it. Did I tell you about the time I had to climb three Circle floors from the outside? I had a staff in one hand, and—“  
  
“Perhaps,” Cassandra interrupted, her expression sharp, if not unkind, “We should continue this story on the way back to Skyhold. Now that the Venatori have been dealt with, it should be safe for the villagers to return.”  
  
“Cassandra is quite right. We’ve done all we can, and It’s far too cold to linger here. Even Skyhold feels warm compared to this.” Vivienne put in, her tone all but deciding the matter.  Shrugging blithely, the Inquisitor momentarily relinquished her leadership, almost happy to leave the icy territory behind.

* * *

  
It was after three hours of riding, Skyhold looming over the horizon, that Alcine noticed something was off. Despite the cool mountain air, heat pressed in on her from all sides, the breeze little aid in cooling her down.  As her mount trotted onward, the pain in her ribs hadn’t dulled, feeling just as fresh as when she had broken them all those months ago, after the assault on Haven.  
  
She tried to go back over the events in Emprise Du Lion, before remembering the knife.  Loosening her grip on the reins, the mage put a hand to the wound at her left side, wincing at the shock of pain that still felt new. It burned fiercely, blood slicked against her fingers as she drew away, dripping through the dark blue of her coat. That couldn’t be possible, not with the empty potion bottle still sitting in her pocket.  
  
Feeling the slightest wave of anxiety rise up in her stomach, the mage tried to conjure a healing spell, the silvery-green glow shimmering briefly in her fingertips. At once, the pain intensified, as if reacting negatively to the magic. There was a hum in the back of her head, a low, unfamiliar sound.  
  
The Inquisitor gasped, doubling over on her saddle, provoking a disturbed whicker as she clung weakly to the horse.  
  
“S-something’s wrong.” She coughed, only to find crimson drops flecked across her hand. Panic began mounting faster and faster, breathing making the harried transition to hyperventilating.  
   
With the blurring of her vision, she tilted dangerously, until equilibrium slid out from beneath her. Eyes rolling to the back of her head, Alcine toppled off the horse with an undignified crash.  
  
“What in the name of—“  
  
“Inquisitor, what’s—“  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Voices came quickly after that, anxious, confused. The mage couldn’t make out much, losing focus as everything flickered to black, the feeling of fear clawing at her chest.  
  
“Hang on, Ivy.  Just hang on.” After that, all was silence.


	2. Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold hears the news of the Inquisitor's injury, and the inner circle begins a vigil.

Chaos erupted quickly, after the Inquisitor’s fall from grace, so to speak. The guards sent word to the healers, and by the time the party had arrived, with one frightened horse, and one unconscious Herald of Andraste in tow, there were preparations already in place.  
  
Between Cassandra and another guard, the Inquisitor was half carried, half pulled to her quarters, flanked by several worried onlookers. One fierce glare from the protective Seeker, and the hordes scattered. The damage was done, however, the news spread over Skyhold like wildfire.  
  
Once Alcine was settled into bed, the healers shooed the others from the room. Cassandra and Vivienne stayed nearby, waiting for any chance of good news. Minutes crawled by like hours as the mages worked, the occasional cry fracturing the tense air. The door finally opened, and Solas emerged, looking drawn.  
  
“The healers are still attempting to neutralize whatever has infected the Inquisitor, but they think it was poison. However, I believe whatever weapon was used to injure her was made of red lyrium. The mages are having difficulty determining which symptoms are that of the poison and which are the influence of the lyrium. I have done all I can, but a greater threat still remains.”  
  
“You think there’s a chance of possession.” Vivienne stated, less a question and more an acceptance of the inevitable. Surprisingly, there was no derision or disdain in the Iron Lady’s voice, something she usually kept present when talking to Solas.  
  
“Fighting a poison is draining to the physical body by itself. But doing so while hallucinating and wandering the Fade? That level of emotion will only attract more demons. Which may be what the Venatori intended all along.”  
  
“There must be a solution, surely? Corypheus cannot have eliminated the Inquisitor so easily, or else he would have done it already.” The Seeker glanced  between Vivienne and Solas. The Inquisition had access to some of the best thaumaturgical minds in Thedas, and yet, nothing was working. Their only hope for defeating a delusional darkspawn with thoughts of godhood was out cold, fighting for her life on two different battlefields.  
  
“While the mages attempt to find an antidote, Trevelyan will need a link back to this world. Talk to her, keep her mind from slipping too far into the dream.”  
  
“Someone should tell the Commander. He should know, and if anyone could keep the Inquisitor here, it would be him.” Vivienne said, one hand held tight around the grip of her staff.  
  
Judging by the chatter in the soldiers’ barracks, not to mention rumors of kisses on the battlements, Alcine and Cullen had grown close recently.  
  
“I will make sure he knows. Until then, we will find some way to fix this, and we will go on. The Inquisition shall not be halted by one assassin’s blade.” With that, the Seeker lifted her shield from its resting spot against the wall, her expression grim, off to deliver unfortunate news.

* * *

  
The Anchor sang to her, the melody low and almost inaudible, a slight snatch of notes here or there, the softest of melodies that rang in her ear.  
  
Alcine tried to catch more of it, straining to follow the tune, to memorize the pattern, but it slipped away, like water through her fingers.    
  
Fire scorched her chest and ash coated her lungs, making it impossible to breathe. It burned red and orange behind her eyelids, and crackled along her spine.  
  
Sleep was so much more enticing, easier than breathing, moving, or opening her eyes. The fire wanted to burn, and Alcine would let it. No one could hear music when a forest fire blazed in their veins.  
  
A memory swam before her eyes, a girl with gleaming eyes and a sharp, eager smile. The mage tried to reach for it, to pull affection and comfort, every feeling the memory brought, closer. But it slid away, oozing like candle wax, out of her reach.  
  
Nothing stayed, nothing held, except the fire. So she slept, and hoped that whatever emerged from the ashes would be better.  
  
And still, the Anchor sang, almost like a lullaby, drawing her deeper into slumber.


	3. Keeping Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen waits, and Alcine dreams.

Morning broke over the mountains, bringing a cloudy, chill day, and with it more work to do. A palpable sense of determination lingered in the air, as the Inquisition stirred, and their tasks resumed.    
  
After a full day with no progress on an antidote, and no sign of recovery, the inner circle of the Inquisition was beginning to get a little antsy.    
  
Leliana’s agents captured a pair of Venatori agents during the night; the spymaster was leading the interrogations herself, with an especially fierce look in her eyes. Grand Enchanter Fiona was diligently researching poisons, her best mages, as well as the Tranquil researchers helping with the efforts. Josephine and her influence kept the Inquisition running from outside Skyhold, using the full power allowed by her diplomacy and influence to keep appearances at their best.  
  
As for Commander Cullen, any time not focused on the Inquisition’s army, he could easily be found in Alcine’s chambers, keeping as steadfast a vigil as possible.    
  
Late morning was no exception, as one of the healers discovered, after examining the Inquisitor, a surprise at the bottom of the stairs leading to the inner quarters. As imposing as the Commander was, he was good at being quiet in armor, a notion that drove Alcine to distraction on more than one occasion.    
  
"How is she?" His voice edged towards rough, the question almost desperate.  
  
The healer, an older man, frowned, a tremor of pity flickering over his expression. “I am sorry to say, messere, but the Inquisitor fares no better. The fever has not broken and… She is delirious, talking in her sleep. The other healers and I cannot make sense of it.” The man shifted, looking uncomfortable, for good reason. Even an ex-Templar was intimidating to a mage, especially in regards to Cullen.  
  
“There must be something that can be done, to ease the pain?”  
  
The slightest bit of indignation crossed elderly features, but it smoothed away just as quickly. The rebel mages were loyal to the Inquisitor, at times edging towards over protectiveness. “Forgive me, Commander. It may take some time, but we are doing everything we can, I assure you.”  
  
It sounded too empty in his ears, a meaningless platitude, but he nodded, letting the mage leave.  
  
In the Inquisitor’s quarters, sunlight poured through the large glass windows, a soft breeze ruffling the curtains with cool mountain air. On the bedside table stood a large basin filled with water, a cloth spread over one side, multicolored potion bottles scattered across the tabletop. Judging by the scraps of parchment and the quill left on a nearby chair, not to mention the familiar handwriting, it seemed as if Cassandra had been there, writing reports.  
  
Mumbling came from the bed where Alcine lay, carefully tucked under cream-colored blankets. The scene was so peaceful at first glance, as if she had simply slept in, as opposed to the actuality of the situation. Even with a full night’s rest and the thorough ministrations of the senior healers, the Inquisitor’s skin was pale as parchment, the dark lines of her tattoo stood out starkly under her eye. A faint sheen of sweat dripped down her forehead, each breath ragged and shallow.  
  
Taking the empty seat beside Alcine, he took her unmarked hand, squeezing gently. Despite whatever the mage was suffering, pulled away from reality, she twined her fingers around his, more than aware of another presence.    
  
“Maker, don’t take her now. Not like this.” In all honesty, Cullen had never pictured this kind of scene. Not in the way it had turned out. Their places switched, possibly. Complications due to his withdrawal from lyrium, that was more likely than this. All it had taken was an unlucky strike from a lone assassin, one highly potent weapon making contact.    
  
He recalled a snow covered figure trudging through the dark mountains of Haven, against impossible odds. For a woman who had survived the mage rebellion, the Conclave explosion, a physical excursion through the Fade, and a brush with Corypheus, it seemed unreasonably cruel to be waylaid so easily.      
   
Cullen should have known better. Fate had certainly been cruel enough to him through the years. Memories of failed Harrowings were all but tangible in his mind’s eye, the apprentices becoming abominations, the manic, panicked blood mages in Kinloch Hold. His Knight Commander turning to stone, after cutting a path of madness and paranoia through Kirkwall.  
  
As if someone had known his thoughts needed an interruption, a harsh cough rattled through the room, followed shortly by a whimper. Alcine tensed, tightening her grip on his hand, until the pain finally subsided, leaving tiny crescent marks in the leather of his glove. Blood trickled from one corner of the mage’s mouth, a jarring shock of color where there shouldn’t have been.  
  
Easing back against the pillows, she murmured, all but incoherent at first, addressing someone who wasn’t currently there. “Cordy… no, please, don’t go. Don’t leave me here. Cordy…please.”     
  
Taking the washcloth from the basin, the ex-Templar smoothed it over the mage’s forehead, in an attempt to cool the fever.  
  
Alcine shuddered at the touch, her breath hitching into a single sob. “M’sorry. S-so sorry.”  
  
The singular apology felt as if it had broken his heart, just a little. “As am I, my love.”    
  
Cullen stayed by her side as long as he could, as shadows stretched across the floor and evening fell over Skyhold. It wasn’t until Solas discovered the Commander dozing fitfully in the same chair, that he was relieved from his watch.

* * *

  
“I can’t believe this is the state I find you in. What happened, little lark?”  
  
That voice, oh, she knew that voice, sweet and chiding and lyrical. Little lark, it was Cordy's favorite nickname for her, what she called Alcine in moments of exasperation, affection, or worry. The mage was so sure she would never hear that nickname again. The sound of it made her eyes prickle, tears springing to the corners, sliding down her cheeks.  
   
The Anchor’s keening had softened, the persistent hum all but gone, nothing more than a tickle in the back of the mage’s mind.  
  
“Flames everywhere, fanned, fed, feeding, burning through skin and bone. The letter crumples in tight fingers, have to stop yourself from destroying it. ‘This is not right, this cannot be right. All that magic and I couldn't help?’ Laughter swallowed by sobs. You didn’t want to be there, did you?”  
  
The second voice was a lance in her head; agony set every nerve alight. She tried to stifle a scream, eyes screwed up tight. _No, no, no. Don’t make me think of that, please. Please._  
  
The ghost of a touch broke through the haze, like a hand brushing hair away from her forehead. “Shhh, it’s alright, I’m right here. Breathe easy now, sweetling.”  
  
Alcine curled inward, shaking and shivering, trying to gain some purchase on thoughts that wouldn’t stay still. She was no leader, no one to look up to. Just a child, shivering in the dark, useless without the strength of others behind her. It had been playing at diplomacy that brought the mage to the Conclave in the first place, and playing at being a warrior to this particular predicament. Clearly, pretending to be more than an inconsequential mage was the only thing getting her into trouble.  
  
Perhaps, at this point, it was better to stay asleep, than wake, and let everyone down.  
     
“Good, stay with me. Stay here where it’s safe, little lark.”  
  
So she did, moving farther and farther away from the sting of reality. 


	4. Research and Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian looks for a cure, and something is amiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, school continues to eat up my life.

He could hardly believe it, but Dorian was starting to get tired of sifting through Skyhold’s meager library. He had been half tempted to start dropping books over the railing when they proved unhelpful, if not for the retribution he would have garnered from Solas.

Knowledge and research had always come rather easily to him, years of practice studying under Alexius. Nights in the mountain fortress were rather different than those back home, but candles still cast shadows over the pages, illuminating information that could be of help. Although at this point, it seemed less and less likely. Josephine had sent for more books from the vast archives at Cumberland and Val Royeaux, although that would take far more time than they had.

Turning back to the bookcase, the Altus glanced towards the Antivan literature, his next attempt at finding a cure. The idea that there was something useful, however, was laughable, at best.

It took him a moment or two to notice the wide, floppy hat brim peeking over the shelves, as if it were perfectly ordinary to lurk behind stacks of books. At this, Dorian definitely did not jump. Started, maybe, but he absolutely did not jump

“Cole, I know you don’t always understand the way people behave, but usually, we don’t go around sneaking up on one another. Sera doesn't count."

"Books everywhere, cicadas sing outside the window, lanterns glowing gold in the study. Felix slips in, smiling slightly, food piled on a plate. 'I like trouble,’ he says, searching shelves. I want to help, Dorian. Desire dancing closer, and no one to step in. Can't hear the music."

With another flicker, the rogue stood behind him, hovering just next to the chair by the window.

“You can’t just pop into her head and make everything better? At least then we would have a conscious Inquisitor, if still a dying one.” Dorian tossed another tome onto the pile of unhelpful books. It was becoming precariously tall, threatening to tip sideways over the table.

Cole picked morosely at one fraying shirtsleeve. “She won’t let me in. Something’s blocking, barring, breaking bonds between this world and the dream. It’s brighter than the Anchor, but the wrong color. How can I help the hurt when helping hurts more?”

As if the whole situation wasn’t odd enough, the idea that Alcine was subconsciously rejecting Cole’s unorthodox help added another level to the mystery. Under normal circumstances, the Inquisitor was fond of the spirit, and tried her best to be a source of aid to him. The idea appeared to be affecting him more than usual.

“This won’t last. We will find a cure, and our dear Inquisitor will be back to climbing trees and playing games soon enough. You’ll see.”  

Still partially caught up in others’ thoughts, or perhaps his own, the spirit vanished once more, and silence resettled over the tower, broken occasionally by the squawk of Leiliana's ravens.

With one weary sigh, Dorian returned to the task at hand, unable to help comparing the current situation to that of looking for a needle in a haystack.

 If there was ever a time for a well-placed fireball, this was it.

 

* * *

 

“Hurry up, hurry up! The call for lunch sounded ten minutes ago!”

There was Cordy again, her voice sounding very far away indeed. Willing her eyes to open, Alcine was half surprised to find this time; she actually could, where darkness had pressed so heavily before.

Something faint lingered in the air, a sharp scent that shook memories loose from somewhere deep in the mage’s mind. Spirals of smoke wafted upward in wispy curlicues, forcing Alcine to blink repeatedly, clearing her vision. Watery sunlight spilled through an open window, apple trees bowing low in the breeze outside. It took a moment, but the realization struck suddenly, like a punch to the stomach, leaving her breathless.

This was the Ostwick Circle, a substitute for home for over twenty years. How had this not been familiar to her before? The worn stones beneath her feet, the shouts of the Knight Commander from the Circle courtyard, the pungent scent of the incense floating up from the Chantry. Alcine took a moment, practically overcome by a feeling of homesickness. Ostwick had not been this peaceful in a very, very long time. Even after the neutrality they had adopted in the face of the mage rebellions, there had been so much tension in the atmosphere, it made the hostility she experienced after the Conclave explosion seem friendly in comparison.

Regardless of her previous feelings, of resigning herself to a fate of boredom and clipped wings, so to speak, the Circle was more of a home than the Trevelyan estate had ever been. There were good memories here. Climbing apple trees, rainstorms in early spring, the perfect hide and seek spot on the fourth floor. It had been where she had celebrated name days, taught apprentices how to cast the simplest of spells, fallen asleep pouring over texts in the tiny library.

“Come on, Alcine, keep up! If you make us late, I’m not going to save you any food this time.” A glossy brown braid whipped around a corner, all but smacking her in the face, as the figure dashed for the stairs.    

The familiarity of the chiding made her move almost on instinct, reaching to lift the hem of the Circle robe, trailing about her ankles. All it took was the slightest glance towards her left hand, and a tongue of white hot flame seared up through Alcine’s fingers, running its course until fire pulsed with each heartbeat, until breathing, standing, existing hurt too much. Breath snagged in the mage’s chest, and she gasped softly, forcing more air inward.

“Little lark? What is it, what’s the matter? Here, sit down here. Lydia will make sure we’re not missed.” A warm hand pushed her toward an open door, and down into a chair. Propping her elbows on her knees, Alcine tried to ignore the coals rattling about in her head.

Cordy looked the same as ever, waist length brown braid and luminous green eyes. Her warm, honey-gold skin made the mages’ garb seem the height of Orlesian fashion, and a playful smile teased at the corners of her lips. It was _so_ good to see her again.

“Why the long face, sweetling? You seem so down.”

“Maker, there _must_ be something wrong with me. Home for the first time since—“ She glanced down at her hand again, catching sight of the green streak stretched over one palm.

“She hands you the letter, weary, worried, wanting to reach out, provide some source of comfort. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear.’ Curving, careful cursive, a kindness, a caution. ‘Enchanter, don’t make me go, please.’ Grief goes deep, too deep to deceive.”

Suddenly, it was as if someone tore all the magic from her, a metaphysical mana drain on the surroundings. This was not home, this was the Fade. Ostwick had ripped itself apart through rebellion and dissent, it stood abandoned now, a reminder of what had been. She was no longer just a mage from the Free Marches, the third daughter of a minor noble house and the bane of her mother’s ambition. She was the leader of an Inquisition, the proclaimed ‘Herald of Andraste.’

Not to mention, her dearest friend of nearly eighteen years was most definitely dead.

Ice dripped down Alcine’s spine, a chill pooling in her stomach. With wide, disbelieving eyes, she stared at Cordy. _Oh, Maker, what have I done?_

Her friend sighed, a half annoyed, half bored sound. “And here I thought I had blocked out that irritating spirit. What does he call himself? Cole? A chattering nuisance if I’ve ever encountered one. What a waste of time.” The sweetness of Cordelia had vanished, replaced by a tone of exasperation, tempered with the slightest spike of malevolence.

Alcine tried to summon a spell, the weakest crackle of electricity filling her fingertips. It was too late however, as once more, darkness swirled over her vision, and the mage sunk back into fearful, restless sleep.


	5. A Breakthrough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are formed and a rescue mounted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to the Solas fans, I have to add him to the list of characters I cannot seem to write.

As night gave way to morning, Dorian had practically forgotten Cole’s visit, retiring to the heavy oak desk where anything of value was gathered, a fresh candle burned all the way down to a pathetic puddle of wax. Sleep called so loudly, and yet the mage persisted, telling himself that the next book would have the answers he needed. It was in the midst of pouring through a heavy tome covered in green leather and a thick layer of dust, that he found the impossible.  
  
Pressed between the pages of the book was a torn page, almost as if someone had used it as a bookmark. An underwhelming page in neat, curving script, detailed the following.

_Letali Sopore: Once used in the days of prevalent Tevinter somniari, letali sopore was a compound commonly used to keep targets asleep, until said somniari could enter their dreams, and ultimately kill their targets._  
  
_Translated roughly as ‘deadly sleep’ from Ancient Tevene, the poison was most effective in two divergent methods:_  
  
_If absorbed through food or drink, and digested, the victim would fall into a deep sleep for several hours, sometimes even days, depending on the dose and other extenuating circumstances, therefore providing somniari with enough time to strike. Other uses of the sleeping poison included increasing the chances of demonic possession, and was commonly instrumental in Harrowings, in order to eliminate up and coming rivals in the Imperium._  
  
_Conversely, when the victim had been infected directly, in the case of wounds or immediate contact with the skin, stronger symptoms would be easily identifiable. Symptoms of a lethal infection included prolonged unconsciousness, internal bleeding, fever, aches, hallucinations, tremors, and in untreated cases, death could come within a few days of the initial poisoning._  
  
_The substance fell out of use in the Steel Age, with the advent of the Qunari invasion. In modern times, letali sopore is an elusive substance; the ingredients used to craft such a poison are all but extinct in the Dragon Age. The components for the antidote however, not discovered until at least a half century after the poison’s popularity, can be obtained far more easily. The difficulty lies in the crafting of said antidote, the complexity can cause death more quickly than that of the poison itself.  See recipe details below._  

“Vishante kaffas.” The mage all but breathed, scanning the page over again, as if to make sure he hadn’t been seeing things. When he had reassured Cole of the likelihood of a remedy, it seemed the longest of long shots, something even Varric wouldn’t put money on. Now, with one scrap of parchment, the smallest stroke of good fortune, there was a very good chance the situation would be remedied, and quickly.  
  
Carefully keeping the scrap of paper away from the candle, Dorian hurried up the stairs, to share his findings with the other mages. From there, the news spread so quickly, it seemed as if magic was involved, and soon the whole of Skyhold was anticipating the recovery of their Inquisitor.  
  
From a shadowy corner a few floors away, Cole smiled. “I helped.”

* * *

  
“I don’t understand, you say the Inquisitor has gotten worse? How is that even possible?” Impatience cut into the Seeker’s expression, making the deep scar along her cheek all the more severe.  
  
With the discovery of a remedy, Skyhold had been abuzz with preparation, several parties had been sent out to gather, beg or borrow the supplies needed to make the poison’s antidote. As the errand required either secrecy or diplomacy, some of the warriors left at the fortress were feeling slightly frustrated at the inaction. From the bifurcated training dummy sprawled out in the grass, Cassandra was definitely one of them.    
   
It was a testament to Solas that he did not mirror any of Cassandra’s aggravation, as unperturbed as ever.  
  
“Just as I said, Seeker. Although it pains me to report it, the Inquisitor has indeed grown worse. From my previous observations, she was visibly upset,  talking in her sleep, most likely from hallucinations. That was only to be expected, under the unknown poison’s influence. Now, she doesn’t speak or stir. even the Anchor mark appears weak, it barely reacts, despite the tests I have performed. Asides from her pulse, and the slightest of breathing, there is little sign of life. At the outset, we feared possession, and now, the chances of that seem all the greater.”  
  
“I would have thought less hallucinations a sign of recovery.” She readjusted the grip on her blade, one hand spasming at the idea of their Inquisitor, dead. For all her easy unconcern, Alcine had been a surprisingly capable leader, not to mention a unexpected friend.      
  
“Ideally, you would be correct. But I believe that was Trevelyan’s way of fighting the poison. There was still some sense of self present, even through the Fade. Now I am unsure. I have consulted with spirits, seeking their aid, but there is little they can do without knowing the Inquisitor. There are too many rifts and too many dreaming mages to locate just one. ”  
  
“What is it you suggest then, Solas?” Regardless of any initial misgivings, she trusted the apostate and his judgements in regards to magic. His expertise had not failed them before, especially when it came to matters of the Fade.  
  
This, however did not mean she would allow whatever cure Dorian discovered to be withheld just out of precaution. Now was not the time for experiments.  
  
The faintest of smiles passed over Solas’ expression, before slipping beneath the mask once more. “I would like to walk into the Fade to find our Inquisitor, and make certain she has not been possessed before the antidote can be administered. Normally I would do this alone, but Cole has voiced a desire to help. I come to you, Seeker, because you have known the Inquisitor the longest out of any in the Inquisition.”  
  
Sharp eyebrows rose in confusion, and Cassandra lowered her sword, taken aback. “That is only because I was there to interrogate her at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. You studied the Anchor for far longer than I did.”  
  
“I might point out, that she was unconscious for the majority of that study.”  
  
The warrior lapsed into silence, gaze sliding into middle distance, watching the northern breeze ruffle hangings and banners in the courtyard, the snaking tendrils of ivy rustling in the soft wind.  
  
“I am no mage, but if you believe this will bring the Inquisitor back safely, I will accompany you… For all the good you seem to think it will do.”  
  
She received the simplest of nods in return, accompanied by the flicker of a pleased expression. “Excellent. I will make sure everything is prepared.” With that, the hedge mage turned, making his way back to his study.  
  
After entering the Fade physically at Adamant, the thought of entering through dreams did not seem nearly as monumental. If Solas’ nonchalance was anything to go by, the excursion was nothing more than sauntering across the courtyard at Skyhold.  
  
Despite this, Cassandra had her reservations. The Fade was a realm mostly unknown, and to traipse through someone’s dreaming mind seemed the most personal of invasions.  
  
“Maker, watch over us.” She prayed silently, before going back to the newly replaced dummy. Instinct told her it was going to be a trying day.


	6. Fade Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A search in the Fade, and ghosts from the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is the worst, and I apologize for the two week delay.

When dusk fell, and the shadows on the ground lengthened, a runner appeared at Cassandra’s training corner, a note in neat handwriting requesting she was to come to Solas’ study as soon as possible.

Once inside the cool, circular room, she was greeted by one eager mage, and one half attentive spirit, running his hands over the brim of a threadbare hat.

The ritual itself was simple, a draught that smelled faintly of lavender and elfroot, pulling the drinker into slumber almost immediately. Between one blink and the next, Cassandra left the waking world behind, to travel in something far less stable.

A dust covered Circle met the trio as they crossed into the Fade, a hall filled with doors, shimmering with the misty lights of dreams and magic, almost palpable in the air. It was rather unsettling, watching seemingly solid brick flicker, as if it were easy to pass through the construct. How the elven mage could spend so much time here, it confounded her. For Solas’ part, he appeared none too alarmed, simply curious.

Cole was distracted, hearing the jumble of thoughts that swirled in Alcine’s mind. “Spiraling, spinning, thoughts won’t settle, no semblance of sanity. Can’t falter, can’t fall, too many people to protect. Please, just, let me wake up.”

“Do you have any sense of where she might be?”

The spirit was quiet, listening in a way that reminded the Seeker of a cat, ears perked, and his head cocked in another direction, something calling only to him. “Oh!” Pale eyes widened, and Cole started off in one direction, leaving the others to follow in his wake.

Spirits roamed the hallways, mostly benign, gentle wisps of memory, undisturbed by the strangers traipsing through their realm. Still, Cassandra kept her guard up, for anything more hostile than lingering spirits.

A quake rocked the ground beneath the party’s feet, and a new tension pressed heavily against senses, it prickled like goose bumps along her skin. To her left, Solas murmured something elven, the slightest hint of agitation audible. Before Cassandra could ask another question, the floor shook more violently, and a door at the end of the hallway vanished, the room behind it dissolving into nothingness. She felt the slightest bit of anxiety, thoughts straying to the possibility of being caught in such a thing.

“We must hurry. There is no time to wander aimlessly,” Solas said grimly. As if to punctuate this, another room fell away, magic moving quickly along the seams. Racing the rapidly vanishing doors and hallways, the pair caught up to Cole, who was waiting at the stairs. A rabbit with sleek brown fur sat quietly at his feet, nose twitching. At the sight of them, the animal did something odd, abruptly sitting up on hind legs, ears perking slightly.

“It knows the way. Fleet footed, following, never far behind, but couldn’t interfere. It wants us to follow, walk the same path she did. Trusting, now that we’re here.”

“A spirit of guidance. I understand now, why the Inquisitor mentioned encountering one during her Harrowing. It appears as if this is the same one as before.” As Solas explained, the rabbit’s ears lowered, and it hopped down the hall, the slip of a tail bobbing along in the green light.

“A spirit that could just as easily guide us into a trap.” Nothing here could truly be trusted after all. Not even the spirit emulating Divine Justinia had been real.

“You are quite right, Seeker, and normally, I might agree with you. Unless we can find another solution however, this is our only option. Can you think of anywhere else the Inquisitor might be?”

Cassandra thought, of all their casual conversations, in her corner at Skyhold, or on the battlefield. Alcine hadn’t said overly much about her life at Ostwick, but something did stand out, a story that had risen from an inquiry into her tree climbing abilities.

“She told me once, a Templar locked her in the Circle’s library for a night, as punishment for climbing trees. It was her explanation for disliking the caves at Crestwood, no view of the sky, she said.” A slight furrow creased her face, a determined, searching expression.

“Dark, deep, damp, the scent of dust and parchment, nowhere to sleep, to breathe. ‘Let me out, please, please. I won’t do it again, I promise.’ A child’s whimper falls on deaf ears.” Cole interjected, still pulling thoughts as easily as if they were loose threads.

“Is it common for Circles to have underground libraries?” Solas asked, glancing between Cole and Cassandra.

“Even if it is not, it the closest we have to the Inquisitor’s location. If that is where this spirit of guidance going, then we should follow.” Raising her sword, Cassandra took point. They would not fail, not now, or ever.

* * *

 It was the crackle of the Anchor that shook her awake; green light crept under closed eyelids, the tremors of pain seizing up her hand.

“Ahh, she wakes…” The voice that greeted Alcine in her return to consciousness was smooth as silk, a low, husky sound in her ears. Gone were the calming tones of a long dead friend, a fact she couldn’t help but be grateful for.

_This cannot be happening. Just let me wake up, please_. She tried to extricate from the dream, to go back to the world of the living, but everything lagged before her, every twitch of a finger, each intake of breath felt slow, agonizingly slow. _Why can’t I wake up_?

The Fade was clear now, images flickering between the chamber at Ostwick and the ethereal glow of the realm of dreams. Still slumped in the chair, the mage lifted her eyes to the demon hovering where Cordelia once stood. A deep shade of violet, with a woman’s lithe form and spiraled horns large enough to put most Qunari to shame, the hostile spirit discarded the form it expected to be useful, in preference of her own.

_Maker, how could you be so naive? Cordy’s been dead for months, you knew that, you saw the letter. Stupid, stupid fool_. A prickle of anger sparked in her stomach, Alcine bit her cheek hard enough to draw blood, stinging, as she tasted it.

“What do you want?” If she was going to die, she wanted to get it over with, uninterested in listening to lengthy speeches meant to convince.

“Oh, it’s not what I want, dear girl. I am here only to serve you, the Herald of Andraste.” Beneath the sweetness, was a venomous edge, a viper circling its prey. “I saw into your mind, little mage, I know your heart’s desires. Climb all you want, little lark; you can’t leave the mark on the ground. Do you know how simple it would be for me to give you everything you wanted? The work of a moment, to return you to the life you knew. Far away from the burdens forced onto your shoulders.”

Ostwick shimmered back into some show of solidity, and a rush of apple blossom scented air flooded the chamber. Everything was so familiar, Alcine clamped down on her voice, more homesickness hitting her in waves. “No one can do that. I can’t go back, not now, not ever.”

With a long, curving finger, the demon traced the tattoo under Alcine’s eye, each touch leaving a kiss of fire on her skin. It took every ounce of self-control for her not to flinch away.

“Humans, you have such a limited scope of the possibilities. I can do anything you wish of me, that’s what makes me a spirit of generosity. Don’t limit yourself to what I can give you. You pray for your lover’s pain to be taken away. Let me do what your Maker cannot. One little word, and I can make him whole, I can wipe away all those memories that haunt your dear Commander.”

“I’m sure you’ll do all this out of the kindness of your heart, and not ask for anything in return, right?” A bite of sarcasm tinged her voice, undercutting the fear that shook her hands.

“I’m a spirit of generosity, dear, not selflessness. I’d need a favor for my good works, of course. Just a little foothold into your world. Barely more than a step. A fair price, to restore the life you used to have. The friend you used to have. You miss her so dearly, it was easy to use her form.”

“Don’t,” The mage’s voice hardened to flint, eyes cold as icicles. “Just let her be. She’s—Maker, she’s been through enough.” The crack in her voice threatened any sense of composure, but Alcine refused to show more signs of weakness. She had done this before, many moons ago. This was so much like her Harrowing; she half expected to see a rabbit hop by. If she could make it through then, an untested apprentice, she could resist now.

Alcine knew how magic worked in the Fade; it was one of the first things she learned in her days as a fledgling in the Circle. Willpower could call forth magic, if it was strong enough. There was will somewhere, but all that called to her was grief, long buried, almost forgotten in the panic and plans of the Inquisition. Grief and exhaustion was pulling her towards sleep again.

_No. Think of all you’ve seen here, think of all you’ve done. This monster wants to hurt the people you care about. And all you’re going to do is sit there? Just sleep while she takes your body to destroy everything you’ve worked for, to kill those you love? It’s time to act, and you know it._

She thought of the demon hovering before her, the one who played her into thinking Cordy was alive. Another rush of anger sped to her cheeks, carrying with it a new determination to fight.

Fire was easiest to conjure, ever since the mage set her mother’s curtains on fire at seven years old. Even as the world dragged by, the mana was easy to claim, flaring to life in a rush of orange and gold. Exploding forth, the magic left scorch marks on the walls, tremors rocking the Fade. The chair under her sizzled away in a plume of smoke, burned to ashes.

An ear splitting screech rent the air as the desire demon pitched forward, fast as quicksilver. In one ferocious motion, it swiped at her face, leaving a set of claw marks to bleed freely down one cheek. She responded in kind with a bolt of lightning, the power surging from one hand, ozone tingeing the air. The scent was so thick it almost seemed real.

“I offer you everything, and you still scorn me? Foolish little lark.”

“You do _not_ get to call me that.” Alcine growled, channeling more anger into her magic, the best place it could go. With a familiar, hand-shaking pulse, a shock of green magic cut a hole in the Fade, pulling everything towards it, setting the floor into a fresh set of tremors.

As the demon was dragged violently into the vortex, and the rift sealed itself shut, the mage watched, unable to help feeling the slightest sense of vindication. _That was for Cordy._

At her left, the Anchor winked faintly, an unspoken reassurance. She tried to wake, to open her eyes but the connection to the world was as thin as a cobweb, not enough to come back to consciousness. Breathing deeply, Alcine attempted to get her bearings. Books piled up everywhere, the faint scent of water and parchment, and most importantly, no windows. Ostwick had only one library that made her feel this claustrophobic.

_The only way out is up_. That little voice in her head prodded gently, forcing her feet forward. It was either that, she reasoned, or sit in a fabricated basement until something happened. Her boots sounded loud over the ancient steps leading up, past the main hall, and the apprentices’ quarters, the ghosts of children giggling behind her. Something shook violently, and Alcine turned to see the stairs below had vanished, leaving nothing but air in its wake.

_Well, shit._

This was certainly not going to be the leisurely stroll down memory lane she initially assumed. Picking up the pace, the mage dashed higher and higher, until finally, the concept of a staircase seemed too much for the Fade to maintain. The passage began to shudder, dissolving with her still inside. Out of panic more than anything else, she leapt forward, crashing to the ground.

Right at a certain Seeker’s feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rabbit comes from that comment Cole makes about the Inquisitor's story during the Wicked Grace game.


	7. Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made, and the wait reaches its end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive! I'm sorry for the wait, but I had a quadruple whammy of school, anxiety attacks, Passover and writer's block.

For a moment, the briefest of heartbeats, the scene froze, as if encased in amber. Neither the party, nor the Inquisitor expected this. Before any questions could be asked or reassurances given, however, a door along the endless hallway exploded open. A fierce crackle of magic shot forth, precipitating a cluster of Shades, their oily bodies slithering down the passage in what looked like a massive wave.

With a hasty hand, the Seeker pulled Alcine backwards, blocking the Inquisitor from direct view with her shield. Almost on instinct, the party jolted into action, months of combat making their movements easy, well practiced.

“What— How—?” The mage was flabbergasted, relief, confusion and anxiety all vying for first priority.

“There will be time for questions later.” Solas said, as he drew his staff.

Demons crowded the enclosure, pressing close together, in a flood of darkness and the stench of blood, their clawed hands grasping for flesh, longing to tear the invaders limb from limb. A rank sort of magical residue filled the air, as if the demons were rotting the dream from the inside out.

Luckily or unluckily, depending on perspective, the hall was narrow, unsuited for traditional fighting. This, however, hindered the demons just as much as the members of the Inquisition. Shades were forced to advance in a straight line, unable to properly overwhelm. Between one flicker and the next, Cole was the first forward, Cassandra close behind, their blades flashing with the pale lights of nearby wisps.

To no one’s surprise, Solas was in his element, the Fade practically bending to the magic he commanded. Alcine recalled it at Adamant, but this was an entirely different situation. She couldn't help but gape for a moment, before joining the fray, fireballs and bolts of lightning flying in all directions. It was such a comfort to be fighting alongside allies again, after being alone for what seemed an age.

Once the last monster was dispatched, impaled by one of Cole's daggers, the others turned their attention to the matter at hand. Alcine leaned against a wall, the Anchor flashing madly between closed fingers. Tilting her head back, she gave a slight, shaky smile.

“If this is what happens when I miss a war council meeting, I’ll never sleep past dawn again." While her tone was light, the unease in the mage's posture was all too clear. She looked frightened and worse for wear; a set of claw marks marring one cheek, coated in dried blood.

“I’m sure your advisors will be pleased to hear it.” Extending a hand, Cassandra lifted the mage to her feet, with the faintest of smiles, and a pat on the shoulder. It was almost as if they were at the Breach again, all those months ago. “Thank the Maker you are alright Inquisitor.”

Alcine’s responding grin was so bright with relief it practically rivaled the Anchor. “S’good to see you too, Cassandra.”

“I must say, I find myself curious as to how you found us,” Solas said, sizing up the situation. Again, it appeared to be the strangest of coincidences that brought them to the Inquisitor. Or, vice versa, as it were.

Alcine shook her head, only slightly. “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, just trying to wake up.” Wiggling forward, the rabbit spirit pushed its nose against the mage’s leg. Glancing down at the creature, she blinked, surprised. “You… you were the spirit at my Harrowing. Is this another trick? Because there’s been more than enough of that today, thanks.” The sudden exhaustion in her voice was practically corporeal, picked up and amplified by the Fade.

“You think we’re not real. Fake, faulty, formed from fear, but it’s not true. Desire twisted your grief, tricked you into trusting. I am sorry about your friend. I am sorry I couldn’t help before.” The spirit looked as if he wanted to offer comfort, but wasn’t sure how, exactly, to go about it.

Thankfully, the mage was the first to act, impulsively pulling him into a hug, arms encircling narrow shoulders. “It was your voice I heard, reminding me of the truth. You helped, Cole, you definitely helped. Thank you.”

“Oh. Good.” He looked as relieved as he possibly could, as she released him, with one final squeeze.

“What happens now?” All eyes seemed to turn to Solas at once.

There was a pause, a second of contemplation, before he answered, turning to Alcine to address her directly.

“Now that we know you have not been possessed, we can focus on returning you to consciousness. We will have to wake before you can. While still under the poison’s influence, I cannot wake you as I did before, when we met in the Fade. Any other method could cause your physical form unwanted damage.”

“I’m not sure I can deal with another desire demon by myself. Or any kind of demon, for that matter.” Again, there was something behind the otherwise easy tone, humor used to conceal fear, however transparent the attempt was.

“You will not be left to fend for yourself, Inquisitor. You have done enough of that already.”

With a gesture that insinuated familiarity, as well as a few words in Elvish, something that resembled one of Solas’ typical barriers shimmered to life under her feet.  

“A protection spell? And it won’t disappear when you leave.” The mage’s expression was interested, tilting her head in order to get a better look at the runes comprising the circle.

Solas smiled briefly, at the mage’s curiosity. “It is an enchantment of my own making, from early days traveling the Fade. It will keep you safe from hostile spirits.” As if to prove this, the guidance spirit brushed against Alcine’s boots, a small, affectionate movement that made her smile.

“Thank you, everyone. I don’t know where I’d be if not for your help. I owe you my life.” She bowed her head, grateful for good friends.

“It is the least we can do, for all you have done in the Inquisition’s name. But more talk of this can wait until you are well again.” There was that unflinching tone of faith in Cassandra’s voice, that same burning determination in her eyes.

Watching her friends leave the Fade was like watching steam dissipate in cold air, one moment there, the next, gone, in a faint flicker of magic and displaced air.

And so, Alcine waited, hoping beyond hope to finally wake up.

* * *

It was easy to see how easily time could be lost while walking the Fade. Although it had seemed less than an hour traveling the dreams of the Inquisitor, the majority of the night had come and gone between dozing off in an armchair and waking up.

Cassandra was the first through Skyhold’s main hall, her footsteps guided by paths of hazy pre-dawn light and the low, slow burning sconces bolted to stone walls. The guard standing sentry at the Inquisitor’s chambers stood aside almost at once, upon the Seeker’s approach.

Since her last visit to Alcine’s chambers, some considerate servants had attempted to make the room more comfortable for those sitting vigil at the mage’s bedside. More comfortable chairs were placed about the room, draped with fine Orlesian blankets in different shades of blue and gold. The windows, previously flung open wide, had since been closed, to protect from the chill night wind, and a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. At one corner, mingling with the scent of raspberry jam, an indication of Sera’s presence was a strong, medicinal smell of elf root and other, less identifiable herbs, a mage’s workstation clearly evident from the books and runes spread haphazardly across its surface.

A young woman was slumped over a rather large tome in a chair by the fire, half asleep while she waited to be relieved. Someone had clearly made the Commander take a break, although Cassandra was sure he was not sleeping either. At the sound of the heavy oak door swinging shut, the maiden jolted awake, eyes wide and her book a half step from falling into the flames.

“Lady Seeker, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“Go and fetch Master Pavus and the Commander, quickly. It is time for the Inquisitor to wake up.” As the woman scurried off, the Seeker couldn’t help but feel the slightest sense of déjà vu, waiting on an unconscious woman to wake up, before she could act.

Sure as sunrise, Cullen was the first one to arrive, looking mussed and exhausted, but not as if he had slept. Warnings about rest and lyrium withdrawals instantly sprang to mind, but she refrained. No one had been sleeping well since this whole incident began.

“What’s happened? What news?”  

“Alcine found us in the Fade, she remains whole and protected by one of Solas’ spells. All that remains now is up to Dorian and his antidote.” Cassandra crossed her arms to her chest, waiting in tense silence for the mage in question.

As if summoned by the sound of his name, the Altus staggered up the stairs, clearly roused from sleep, and yet looking as immaculate as ever.  

“What is it, exactly, that this Inquisition has against normal waking hours? Venhedis, if I never see this time of day again, I will be a grateful man. Now then," Dorian's eyes twinkled, just briefly, crossing to the workspace and withdrawing a small vial of potion.

"I believe we have a leader in need of an antidote.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm evil.


	8. Magic and Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awakening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry for the delay. There were finals, and I got sick twice in one month, which basically took all the wind out of my sails.

In the moments since her friends’ departure, and the promise of finally being free from the Fade, every second felt like it was moving backwards. The stones were cold under Alcine’s feet, one hand stretched out to trace the tiles, memorizing every touch while she still could. The guidance spirit sat comfortably to one side, velvet fur tickling her forearm. 

Despite the pulse of the magic around her, and the steady rhythm of her breathing, the slightest feeling of drowsiness pulled at eyelids, precipitating a spike of fear jabbing her in the chest. The mage sat up, shaking her head in a vain attempt to clear the invasive feeling.

“No, no, no, not again, I thought I was safe this time.” One hand tightened to a fist, reflected by the glowing lines of Solas’ barrier, all interlocking lines and text she couldn’t quite decipher. For all its help, the rabbit simply dug its nose into the crook of her elbow, as if wanting attention.    

Cautiously, the mage scooped the creature into her lap, giving it what she regarded a searching look, definitely something picked up from the Seeker.

“Why help me? Out of all the dreamers in the Fade, I couldn’t be the only one in emotional distress. And you were at my Harrowing too. Why me, little one? Was there a reason, or am I just lucky?”

Unsurprisingly, the leveret didn’t answer, only started to wash its paws, grooming already shiny fur. The mage couldn’t help the slightest eye roll at that, mostly targeted at herself.

“And now I’m talking to a spirit rabbit. Maker’s breath, I need to get out of here.”

As she sat, the niggling impatience that jolted to life at Solas’ disappearance was being slowly smothered by a determined drowsiness. Once more, sleep settled like a blanket, tossed over her shoulders, making the mage feel warm and comfortable. Alcine contemplated fighting it again, resisting someone else’s pull over her. This felt different somehow, not the sharp, painful yank that the desire demon used, pulling her back by the hair, so to speak. Instead, it was being carried through the snow, tucked under quilts, the feel of summer sunlight on her cheeks. In a sense, it was almost like coming home.

So with her head against the wall, and an oddly warm rabbit curled comfortably in her lap, Alcine allowed the feeling to claim her. 

In that strange space between waking and sleep, an indistinct figure crept forward, green and brown and gold shining through the slumber. A familiar voice murmured close, as if speaking directly in her ear, the press of a kiss brushed over the mage’s forehead.

“I think it’s time to wake up, don’t you?”

* * *

 

“The Light shall lead her safely, through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, She should see fire and go towards Light.”

The words were normally a balm, a reassurance in times of fear or anger. Cullen always relied on the words of Andraste to soothe unsettling thoughts, and he always hoped his prayers fell on receptive ears. Even now, with the sky torn open, and a magister of ancient Tevinter attempting to overtake the world, he raised his voice to the scarred heavens, hoping for one more miracle. 

Other members of the Inquisition passed through the chambers as the morning began properly, hoping to be there when their Inquisitor woke up. Cole appeared with his cryptic compassionate words, Sera stopped by, full of worry and agitation, and most recently, Vivienne, her polished manner cracking slightly under the strain. Although whether this worry was for the Inquisitor, or for Thedas, was something the mage close to heart. Anticipation was a heavy blanket in the air, just as tangible as the magic spilling from the Breach. It was as if the collective organization were holding its breath.

“The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.”

The words were ashes in his mouth; the thought of losing the Inquisitor was unbearable. He remembered the sound of her voice echoing through the pine trees at Haven, their arguments over the War Table, that first, wonderful kiss on the battlements. There were greater concerns to her loss; the fate of Thedas at a tipping point between victory and disaster, but all Cullen could think of was Alcine, the woman behind the Inquisitor.

Outside, Blackwall's voice was strident as he trained the Inquisition's soldiers, the clamor of swords rattling across the courtyard, sounding so close it could have been in the other room. A loud curse rang up from one of the men, and the Commander started just slightly, forcibly pulled from recollection. In that one moment of introspection, he missed the slightest twitch of Alcine’s fingers, the flex of the Anchor reacting to new stimulus.  

His hands trembled from exhaustion and withdrawal pains, eyes cast to the floor. “Andraste, please. You have kept this woman from death time and again, you sent her to us for a reason. She’s done so much, helped so many people. Just let her return to us let me see the woman I love. I would do anything for that.”

“Anything?” The question was so feeble, little more than a raspy whisper. For a second, he thought he misheard, interpreted a breath of wind as a voice. His heart felt as if it stopped. It would be typical for his mind to play tricks in moments of pain and despair. All it took was one hopeful glance towards the bed, to confirm the truth. With a weak smile, Alcine squeezed his hand in return. 

Cullen worked past the sudden catch in his throat. He released a breath he wasn’t aware of holding, taking in the sight of Alcine. The lightest hint of color had returned to her skin, and a playful light twinkled in blue eyes.

"Alcine. Thank the Maker, you're awake." The Commander lifted her hand to his face, grateful that the fever was gone from the touch.

"You're a sight for sore eyes." She swept the pad of her thumb over his cheek, as though she could erase the dark circles beneath his eyes. He could see the shadow of concern in her gaze, the downturn to her lips. It was almost surreal to believe Alcine could be worried about him at a time like this.

The mage’s breath left her in a wince, in a failed attempt to get into a sitting position. “What happened? I remember Emprise Du Lion, and then nothing but the Fade.”

"The assassin you fought had a poisoned blade, forged from red lyrium. You’ve been asleep for days. I feared I lost you. If not for Dorian's antidote--" He stopped mid-sentence, instead moving to give Alcine a kiss. The thought was not worth finishing, when the possibility was gone. 

“I love you too, Cullen,” she said, as they broke apart.  

“Please, don’t do that again, that’s all I ask.” Relief made everything easy again, and for that, Cullen thanked Andraste, the Maker, and any other deity who deigned to listen.

She laughed, although it sounded more like a cough. “I promise. I’ll have to thank Dorian too, knew he wasn’t all bad.”

“Now, now, my dear, you’ll ruin my carefully cultivated reputation, talking like that.” Both heads turned, in order to get a better view of Dorian, standing at the top of the stairs. Judging from the chatter echoing up the hallway, he was not alone.

“And we wouldn't want that, would we?" Again, Alcine tried to sit up, this time with a bit more success. Every effort looked painful, but that was better than the alternative.

Crossing to the bedside, Dorian took the vacant chair next to Cullen, relief coloring his expression. "It’s good to see you. You gave the rest of us quite a scare.”

She bowed her head, shafts of sunlight catching the streaks of pale gold and dark blonde in her hair. “I wouldn’t be here without help. I owe you my life, Dorian.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve done more than that on my behalf.” The Altus shook his head, stopping any further argument in its tracks. They exchanged a look and an agreement was reached, the subject closed.

The voices in the stairwell increased as more people gathered, some peeking around the doorframe, testing the waters. Cullen could hear various accents, Orlesian, Ferelden, Antivan, and one distinctive Nevvarran. They sounded close to breaking down the door in a chance to confirm the fate of their leader.

“Ah yes, that,” Unsurprisingly, Dorian sounded none too worried about the horde of people attempting to satisfy their curiosity, a causal glance thrown over his shoulder. “A few others want to see you, the whole Inquisition, in fact.”

With the smallest of nods, and over Cullen’s reservations, Alcine gave her assent, which seemed the signal for the inner circle to flood the room. Through the noises of celebration and the crowd circling her bed, the mage took every few minutes to appreciate what she had, with a glance towards Cullen, or a reassuring smile to her advisors, her friends.

It was good to be home.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more, this is not the end of the fic.


	9. Echoes of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One rude horse, one red apple, and the story of a mage named Cordy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think that it being summer, I'd be faster at writing these chapters. Apologies again for the delay.

It took the Inquisitor three more days to recover fully, before the healers declared her healthy enough to leave bed. To her annoyance, however, that did not include climbing the ash tree in the gardens, and so, Alcine was grounded, spending time with Josephine’s visiting nobles instead.

 More often than not, this meant the diplomat and her staff conducting searches for the Inquisitor, in whatever corner of Skyhold she decided to hide in. On several occasions, the mage claimed an allergy to nobility, preferring to stay within the inner circle of the Inquisition whenever possible. How she would survive Halamshiral, let alone win the favor of the court, was a mystery.

That afternoon, it was Cullen who sought her out, striding purposefully across the courtyard. Off to the side, the Iron Bull sparred with Krem, the clatter of shields and the scuffle of boots audible, even from a distance. The recruits and soldiers grouped around the sparring ring straightened as the Commander approached.

The slight distraction allowed the Qunari to get under Krem’s defense, knocking the lieutenant to the ground with a well-thrown charge. Laughter bubbled up from a few of the men, but the Bull hauled him up with a good-natured grin.

“You looking for a match, Cullen? I could give that shiny armor another scratch or two.”

Cullen gave the shadow of a smirk, but shook his head. “Another time, Bull. For now, I was wondering if you’ve seen the Inquisitor?”

The mercenary leader looked thoughtful for a moment, before nodding once. “Thought I saw her in the stables, you might want to check there. It won’t stay that way for long if Josephine gets her way.”

As the Commander strode away, towards the barn and Master Dennet’s stables, Krem chuckled softly. “Getting soft there, chief?”

Bull snorted, in a manner befitting his namesake. “Ask me again after I’ve kicked your ass for the third time today.”

The stables were cool and shaded, holding all manner of mounts, the calm Red Hart dozing on its feet, to the menacing Dracolisk growling through its teeth in the corner pen, and the Greater Nuggalope munching idly on hay. In all his years, Cullen had never seen so many odd creatures in one place. At the farthest end was Alcine, speaking in a soothing voice to an Anderfels Courser, a bright red apple in one hand. He watched for a moment, as the mage argued with the horse, who seemed intent on ignoring her.

“Come on, Spice, you can’t stay mad at me forever. Not when I have apples for you.” She received a sharp exhale in response, and the horse turned its nose away from her hand, determined to be spiteful. A sigh, and Alcine rolled the fruit in both hands, deterred, but not defeated. 

“I didn’t mean to fall off. There wasn’t really a choice in the matter.” Another whuffle of air pushed past, moving hair away from her face. “Fine, have it your way then.” About to take the first bite of the apple, she noticed him, almost dropping the fruit in surprise. 

“Andraste’s flaming sword, Cullen, you shouldn’t be able to startle me this easily.”

“To your credit, love, the conversation you were having sounded important.”

A flicker of amusement darted from eyes to lips, her ears turned a slight shade of pink. It was such a contrast to the dying woman from days ago; pain and fear no longer twisted her features.

“My horse is cross with me for falling off. Master Dennet suggested I try a peace offering. You can see how well it’s going, though.” At this, the horse stepped forwards and took a bite of the treat, almost taking a finger with it.

She glowered, “Oh, now you want it, after I’ve made a fool of myself trying to apologize.” Spice nuzzled her hand in response, before taking another bite of the apple. Tucking it into the pail hanging over the stall, she patted the stallion’s nose, before turning away. “Do you have some time? I’ve been meaning to see you sooner, but—" 

“Alcine,” Cullen stepped closer, reaching out with gentle fingers. Carefully, he lifted her chin until their eyes met, golden brown and pale blue. “I always have time for you. Is everything alright?” The question of whether she was all right went unspoken, although the concern was still there.

The mage twisted her hands together, a frequent habit when she was nervous. “When I was sick, Solas told me some of what I said… I owe you an explanation.” 

About to insist that she didn’t owe him anything, Cullen noticed a gravity to Alcine’s features, a look he hadn’t seen since Corypheus’s attack on Haven.

“Whatever you have to tell me, I’m willing to listen. But perhaps, in a more comfortable location?” To punctuate this, the Dracolisk in the corner gave a menacing snarl, pawing restlessly at the ground.

That garnered a laugh. “Yes, I think so.” 

* * *

 

It took some time for the pair to re-settle in Cullen’s quarters, once Alcine begged off her further commitments, and Cullen squared away all but the most inconsequential of tasks, insisting they were not to be disturbed for the next few hours. Some considerate servant left a pot of tea on the Commander’s desk in the interim, still warm when the Inquisitor stepped in.

She was stalling, that much was apparent in the way she lingered over the papers and war plans strewn across his desk, looking but not really focused on anything in particular, twisting a silver ring around her index finger, a gift from Vivienne.

“Andraste’s ass, I’m not even sure where to begin,” she muttered, slumping into a chair, rubbing at tired eyes. After everything in the Fade, she was sleeping as little as possible lately, and the effects were beginning to show.

Taking the seat across from her, he placed a hand over hers. “You don’t have to. I understand wanting distance from the past more than anyone else.”

“No, Cullen. You deserve to know. You told me about your past, the things you went through at Kinloch and Kirkwall. I’m sorry it took me this long to repay it. I just— I wanted to be happy with you for a little while longer.” Alcine worried at her lip, trying to gather scattered thoughts. After a quiet moment and a deep breath however, it seemed as if the tale began without her.

“I was very young, when my family left me at the Circle in Ostwick, no more than seven or eight. One day, it was learning how to curtsy and dance, and the next, it was phylacteries and the dangers of demons. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to see my family, or play outside. I wasn’t a child anymore, just a danger to myself, and everyone around me. Disorienting to say the least." 

She flashed a small, wry look, although the gesture seemed oddly hollow.

“I can’t possibly imagine you stayed obedient and docile for long, even as a little girl,” Cullen commented with the slightest of chuckles.

“You know me too well, love. I was a rather unruly child - climbing trees, hiding from the Chantry sisters, testing my limits with the Templars. The only reason I wasn’t abused or punished, I think, was the Trevelyan’s legacy of giving the Chantry money. That was the extent of their concern for the youngest mage, not when there were two elder daughters to groom into well-respected Chantry sisters, fine players of the Game. But forgive me, that’s not important.” She waved the comment away, as if it were a pesky fly, distracting from a greater purpose.

Alcine smiled, a nostalgic, faraway look in her eyes. “My first friend in the Circle was a Rivaini girl named Cordelia Altomiro, although she hated being called that. It was Cordy, always Cordy. Maker, friend seems too small a word. She was more of a sister to me than my own sisters. We were inseparable, from our apprenticeship onwards. Even our Harrowings were only a few days apart.”

There was a shake of her head, punctuated by a twist of fingers. “Things started to change though, after the events at Kirkwall. Not that I need to tell you.” With the lightest touch, Alcine traced the scar above Cullen’s mouth, before pressing a kiss there.

“Cordy started talking about leaving for good, about finding the Champion or the mage underground, anyone who would let her join, to help make a difference in the future of mages. Not out loud, of course, but she wanted to go. She started making plans, and when the Templars abandoned the Circles, she took her chance, stole her phylactery from the Circle storage. She came to me, begged me to come with her. A member of the mage underground was willing to smuggle us both out, in the middle of the night. But I didn’t go.” 

That was a surprise. “You didn’t? I would have thought—” 

There was a definite tremble rounding the edges of her voice now; glance determinedly fixed on her boots. “There were children at Ostwick, some were no older than I was, when I first arrived. They couldn’t protect themselves, especially against Templars. I couldn’t just abandon them, the way my family did. At least, that was what I told myself. We argued, she was so upset, but finally, I stayed, and Cordy left." 

A thin, tremulous smile cracked her expression, less a happy gesture than a sad one. “She sent me letters from all over Thedas, telling me everything she could, without endangering the other mages. At the end of every message, she asked if I would change my mind. And every one, I couldn’t give her an answer. I treasured those letters, even took them from the Circle when I left. But… I suppose they were destroyed in the Conclave explosion.”

Alcine laced and unlaced her fingers, keeping her hands busy. “Cordy was safe, she was with other mages. Or, so I hoped.”

Blinking rapidly, willing away the tears threatening what was left of her composure, she continued. This part had to be said, it was the whole reason she bothered Cullen with it in the first place. “It was a day or so before I left for the Conclave. Senior Enchanter Lydia took me aside, and gave me a note. It wasn’t in Cordy’s hand though. It was a Chantry mother, in a village near Val Royeaux, a colleague of Lydia’s. She thought it was important I knew, to warn me against taking the same path.”

Cullen, sensing the worst, placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“Apparently, Cordy and her companion were on their way to the city, when they were found by Templars. They saw her lighting a fire with magic, and decided to take the apostates back to a Circle. The other mage got away, ran to find help, but by the time he returned with the mother…”

“Maker’s breath,” he murmured, guessing the end to this tale. He had heard it too many times already. 

Now, her crying began in earnest, Alcine’s shoulders shook with sobs, so tired of trying to hide her grief. “The Templars were gone, and Cordy, she was d-dead. Strangled by one of the men. They left her to die in a ditch, like a dog. My best friend, gone, and I was hundreds of miles away. If I was there, I could have done something, anything, but I was too scared to leave home. Too scared to leave the only place that felt safe.”

 She pressed a hand to her eyes, hiding a steady stream of tears. For a second, all the built up emotion was overwhelming, and the idea of retreating to her chambers seemed a better idea. She could cry there, unburden her heart in privacy, and not let anyone else see. In one quick motion however, Cullen pulled Alcine to her feet, wrapping both arms around her in a comforting embrace. Initially surprised, she buried her face in the soft fur of his pauldrons, crumbling completely.

“W-why couldn’t I save her? All this magic, and I couldn’t keep my friend from dying alone? I’m no Herald, just a coward, and a f-failure. I shouldn't even be here, should be in that ditch right next to her.” The mage’s voice broke halfway through, before regressing to incoherency.

“No, don’t say that. With all you have done for the Inquisition, we would not be here without you. You didn’t know what would happen to your friend. It’s not your fault, darling. It’s not your fault." He ran a hand over her hair, a gesture his mother used to perform when he was little. They stayed that way, leaning into each other, careful not to break the spell that settled over the space, as the weeping slowed, giving way to quiet, hiccupping breaths.

“I’m sorry. It shouldn’t have taken a demon for me to tell you all this. I hope you can forgive me.” Alcine was quiet, still partially muffled by his cloak, feeling embarrassed. Here she was, a grown woman and the leader of an Inquisition, crying on her Commander’s shoulder. What a sight.

“There’s nothing to forgive. At least you didn’t punch any bookcases.” He was pleased to hear a somewhat watery chuckle from the mage, as she lifted her head to look at him.  

“There was more to this, than just me sobbing like a fool.” Fumbling with the pouch around her waist, the mage retrieved a slim glass ampoule, filled to the brim with opaque liquid, such a dark shade of red it was almost black. Hastily, she pushed it into his hands, another flush rising up her cheeks. “For if I get separated from the Inquisition again, or if something else happens." 

The glass was corked and sealed with silver wax, the initials _A.C.T_ embossed along one side. It was warm to the touch, and the contents shone with a muted glow, being in such close proximity. Looking down at the tiny object, Cullen found himself without words. “Alcine, this is…”

“Cordy sent it to me with her last letter. I figured it’d be better in your hands than in Leiliana’s or Josie’s— What with your Templar background, and since you gave me your coin, I thought this was only right.” The red in her cheeks darkened, glance averted towards the floor.

The Commander contemplated the tiny bottle for a moment, before taking both of her hands in his, folding fingers around the phylactery. 

“You should keep it. I am no longer a Templar, and you are no longer a Circle mage. Whatever happens beyond the Inquisition, beyond you and me, you deserve to be free.”

There was a beat, the slightest of hesitations, before it was Alcine’s turn to surprise Cullen. After tucking the phylactery into a pocket of her coat, the mage rose up on tip-toe, hands resting lightly on the vambraces of his armor and her lips against his. He threaded his hands into her hair, returning the kiss, moving to trace the curve of her jaw with a gentle touch. Butterflies quivered in her stomach, catching the scent of mountain air and the clean scent of the soap he used. It was a tender thing, begun and ended far too quickly.

“You have a good heart, Cullen Rutherford, despite your attempts to convince me otherwise.” Her voice was steady and sure, full of sincerity. 

“I would not be here without your support, my lady.”

The rest of the afternoon slowed around them, a halcyon moment for a couple caught in the midst of a war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter! \o/ All that's left is the epilogue, and then this fic will be done. Holy expletives. Thank you to all who have been so wonderfully patient with me while I futz over this story. To those looking for another fic to read after this one, I highly recommend Dalish and Divines, an Inquisition Regency AU written by Vespidaequeen. It's very well written and characterized, I cannot recommend it highly enough. :D


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, the final chapter. I highly recommend listening to Ave Maria and Into the West (from the LOTR soundtrack) for this chapter.

It wasn’t until after Corypheus’s defeat, that Alcine felt free to visit the village near Val Royeaux. In the whirlwind of aftermath and jubilation, losing Solas to his own plans and Cassandra to the role of Divine was a significant blow to the inner circle. Between aiding those displaced by Corypheus, and preparing for the new duties appointed to the Inquisition, more pressing matters crowded out her personal affairs. As Josephine liked to remind her, dignitaries were not disposed to waiting, even for the Inquisitor.

Still, the mage waited for the opportunity to get away, just for a day or so, to visit Cordelia’s grave. The chance came in early spring, almost a year after their victory at Adamant.

Alcine stood in the lower courtyard, anxiously awaiting the arrival of Master Dennet and her horse, a dark blue cloak pulled up over her face in the hopes of preserving anonymity. Her saddlebags were packed for the journey to Orlais, and as far as the rest of the Inquisition knew, she was still asleep, entwined in Cullen’s warm embrace. The rest of the organization dozed peacefully, although the window for an inconspicuous escape was closing quickly. The morning guards were sure to start their shifts any minute now, and the sun had only just begun its ascent over the mountains.

Nerves kept Alcine pacing, as she nibbled idly on a biscuit stolen from the kitchens, the sticky-sweet taste of honey and blackberry preserves doing nothing to quell her roiling stomach. The horse master was certainly taking his time.

“Soft and slumbering, a respite from the sound of chains rattling in dreams he can’t combat. He's quiet now, anchored to an anchor, still but not sinking. A letter on the nightstand, a kiss on the cheek. Slipping away should be easy, but it's not.”

“Good morning, Cole.” She yawned around the greeting, blinking away sleep. It was good to hear his voice, even if it was sifting through thoughts better left private.

The spirit blinked at her, curious eyes reminding her of a cat’s. The staring was less unnerving than when they first met, but only slightly so. “You were happy there. Why did you leave?”

The mage shifted from foot to foot, reaching for a suitable answer. Someone was bound to ask, to notice her absence in the myriad of meetings scheduled over the next couple days. Better to practice the line now, if only to make repetition easy.

“There’s something I have to do, but it’s not Inquisition business. It didn't seem right to bother anyone else with it." Her reasoning seemed flimsy, especially when Cole could see the truth clear as day. 

Whether it was a sign of his growing humanity or something else entirely, he didn't question, just nodded, still watching her with an open expression. “Can I come with you?" 

To call this a surprise seemed a gross understatement. “You really want to?”

“You’re helping, always helping. Cullen’s chains undone, Cassandra’s Seekers salvaged, you helped me become more real, asking nothing in return. You carry the weight and hold the pieces together. Now you need help, hurts to be healed, but you're alone. It's isn't right."

Alcine gave the spirit a wan smile. He had changed so much since their first meeting, but his purpose remained the same. Who was she to dissuade him against helping?

“You’re a good friend, Cole. We’ll get you something to ride, if Master Dennet ever arrives.” She tapped a heel against the bladed base of her staff, ever impatient. The day was starting, and she was eager to be gone before then.

“He won’t be long, he’s getting the others.”

“Others?”

Before the Inquisitor had a chance to prod or question, the sound of hooves against grass signaled the appearance of Dennet. The horse master led three horses and a pale hart from the stables, all equipped for a standard journey to Orlais. As if that wasn’t enough to confound her, Varric and Vivienne made their way down the steps, talking quietly about one thing or another. By the time they joined, she was properly confused, full of half started questions that fizzled out the second they reached her mouth.

“Inquisitor, a little bird told us you were on your way to Orlais and might need some company.” Varric's way with words could mean a number of things, but Alcine could just guess at his source.

“Did this bird have red hair and a penchant for the color purple?" She folded arms to her chest, the mildest hint of amusement hovering around her mouth.

"You're not thinking of implicating our dear Sister Nightingale, are you, Ivy? You know what she does to her detractors." The dwarf winked, moving past her to claim a ride.

Alcine considered her feelings; the thought of being embarrassed or angry came to mind, but she couldn't muster it. All that was left was the truth. "You don't have to come with me. Any of you."

Vivienne mounted a white mare, her silver finery glinting in the early light. “Don’t be ridiculous, darling. If you have business near Val Royeaux, I can introduce you to my tailor in the city. You need something suitable for the Empress’s gala, after all."

Alcine smothered a groan, anticipating an afternoon of being fussed over with needles and thread. Morning had only just begun, and already the day was going to be a challenge, whether it was facing old ghosts or an Orlesian tailor’s scrutiny. It would be better, she reassured, with people she trusted close by.

So, after a momentary delay, the party set out across Skyhold's bridge, riding against the rising sun. 

* * *

 

It took the rest of the day for the quartet to make it to Romarin, a village nestled at the bottom of a valley in the Heartlands. Farmland stretched out on either side of the highway, dotted with newly planted seeds and skinny saplings, not yet ready to bear produce.

Children careened through the wheat fields, pursuing the party with cheeky cries of ’petit alms.’ Varric handed off a couple of sovereigns with an equally cheeky expression, as the children escorted them into Romarin itself.

The village was tiny, no more than a scattering of houses and shops, an inn and the Chantry. It was a brief stop for travelers and a haven for the weary, the perfect place for two apostates to rest and hide before traveling further.

As the innkeeper welcomed them, offering rooms for those of the Inquisition and respite for three weary horses and a hart, the party divided. Varric went to investigate the tavern, Cole vanished, off to help the hurting, and Vivienne accompanied Alcine to the Chantry, claiming to know the current Revered Mother. 

To a hesitant guilty Alcine, the walk from the inn to the Chantry at the other end of town felt longer than her trek through the snow from Haven. The red brick of the Chantry loomed over her, sunburst windows blazing like an all seeing eye in the sunlight. The pair stopped just outside the gates, shaded by blossoming bougainvillea and crabapple trees. Or more accurately, Alcine stopped and her companion followed suit.

“I shouldn’t do this. This isn’t what— I mean—“ She picked loosely at the bundle of flowers in her hand, gathered from trees and bushes along the journey. The idea of saying goodbye felt like a boulder in her stomach.

Vivienne, perceptive soul that she was, patted the Inquisitor once on the shoulder. “My dear you are human, underneath the titles and the responsibilities. You deserve to grieve for a friend just as much as the rest of us. Part of that grief is saying a proper goodbye.”

The Iron Lady’s kind words were a rare gesture, and it fortified Alcine, a metaphorical shield against the pain that welled in her heart.

Inside, Revered Mother Phoebe, an Orlesian woman with dark eyes and a knowing look to her features greeted both women personally. She was warmly reverential towards the Inquisitor and friendly towards Vivienne, an old colleague from days past in Val Royeaux. When Alcine showed the mother the letter in order to explain their sudden appearance, the woman embraced her, unashamed of the affection shown towards a complete stranger.

“Your friend spoke well of you when she visited the Chantry, although I had no idea you were the Inquisitor. She seemed a good soul, taken to the Maker too soon.”

 “Thank you Revered Mother, for everything you did,” Alcine replied, still taken aback by the hug. Phoebe led her to a garden behind the main building. Crystal Grace and Prophet’s Laurel grew in multitudes; benches were hidden beneath newly budding trees and beside freshly dug flowerbeds.

 “Stay as long as you need, your Worship,” With that, she left the mage to the peaceful hideaway, with only memory and regret as company.

While burials were traditional for the dwarves, a stone marker was set into the grass, carved with the names of the departed. A lump caught in Alcine’s throat, even as she knelt to trace the newest engraving.

 

_Cordelia Altomiro. ??? - 9:40 Dragon_

 

Setting the flowers to one side, Alcine settled in the grass, just staring at the slab of dark stone. There was so much to be said, and yet no coherent words came to mind.

_What can I do to make this right?_

“I’m not sure what to say, Cordy. I don’t know what you’ve seen, at the Maker’s side. But I know… somehow, you’ve been watching over me. That’s the only thing I can think of to explain how lucky I’ve been since all this started. I’ve stumbled into what you wanted, a chance to make things better for the rest of the world. You should have been the Herald of Andraste, not me. I don’t know how well I’ve done with all this but… Just know, Cordy that every choice I’ve made, I wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted to live up to all the ideals and hopes you had for this world, and for me.”

Pulling apart the flowers, she laid them out one at a time, even as she talked.

“I’ve made good friends, people you would have liked. I wish you could have met all of them, fought alongside them, like I have.” The briefest of smiles touched her lips. “I would have liked for you to meet Cullen. You would have seen his good heart too, I think.” 

Rosemary, gladiolus and a sprig of lilac fell from the bouquet, painting the reflective stone with pale shades of purple, green and white. 

“I wasn’t a very good friend, was I? I let you take all the risks and I wasn’t there to face the consequences. You would have laughed at me, told me they weren’t my consequences to face. But if things had been different, you wouldn’t have died alone. I would have been there, fighting at your side, like you always wanted.”

Her voice was full of emotion, but Alcine kept her composure. She owed it to Cordy to be more than a weeping mess. 

“You were the closest thing I had to family, and I let you face danger by yourself. I’m sorry, you deserved a better friend than a coward like me.”

A shudder cut through her, and she had to stop, to breathe again. Hydrangea and hyacinth came next, followed by a rose, the sharp thorns pricking her finger. Finally, Alcine laid a single white daisy at the base of the stone, right in the center of the tiny mass of flowers. She allowed herself to cry, letting tears fall like gentle rain.  Wind gusted through the trees and swept petals from the little memorial, tossing them about in the warm breeze.

“Goodbye Cordy. I’ll never forget you, my friend.” She wiped at her eyes before straightening, ready to leave.

As Alcine walked through the Chantry, her heart felt easier, steps lighter. The thought of what happened to Cordelia would never be less painful, the guilt at not being there for her would never completely ease. But now, she could look back on days spent together in the Circle, in sneaking out at night and getting the tattoo under her eye and remember the laughter, the good memories of a friend long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe I actually finished this fic. Thank you to all who were patient and stuck it out while I fussed and futzed around with this piece, and thank you to those who left comments and bookmarked this fic. And thanks to all who got this far. This was my first foray into the Dragon Age fandom, and a totally self indulgent piece. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. <3


End file.
